


The tree's sough

by fraisemilk



Category: Mushishi
Genre: Gen, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 20:58:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3951508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fraisemilk/pseuds/fraisemilk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perhaps he is the quiet between the waves; and the longing one feels away from home. (Ginko, in 4 parts)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The tree's sough

**I.**

On this night something happens, gradually, as time passes, unavoidable.

The sound of his steps on the malleable ground;  

He sees the Moon first, and then the stars; the cosmos makes “Ginko” something other than darkness. _Other_ : a flat white disk in an ocean of black. _Ginko_ : a piece of white cloth tossed on the dark brown earth. A piece of ill-white chalk. Created out of thin black blankness. Ashes and bones creeping on his head; hair the color of a gull and wonderful like a fleeting reflection on a flat, still body of water. What makes a thing alive? _Light_ attracts life; there is Light there, in the green eye and the numb arms and the arched back. Yes, there is darkness attached to the vessel, but still there is Light: flagrant, like an odor, the scent of Rainfall and of the ocean, engraved in the white smoothness of his bones.

The feel of the long grass brushing his legs and of the thorns embedded in them;

 

**II.**

On his skin there are scars. They form the map of a long lonely wandering. Scars that are dots and scars that are crosses, marking each forced rest, each earthquake and each hurricane; the salt of the sea and the grains of the beaches where he waited are imbedded in these closed gashes.

To some people he won’t bother to explain. To some seaside doctor he will say « I’m okay »; to a homebound girl « And this is how it happened ». He forgets them, the scars and the dots. Some, rarely, linger in his thoughts.

There, in pale lines, lies the story of “Ginko”.

 

**III.**

Waking up, breathless. They were just there, but how quickly they vanish: dreams and memories.

And everyone watching him. And everything not making sense. Him not making sense. Him: a hiatus in common sense. A fault in a mountain. Just like the quiet world that quivers and floats beyond a blind man’s eyes.

Ashes and bones creeping on his head; hair white and wonderful like the reflection of the moon on a flat, still body of water.

Sun.       Time.    Mushi.  Insect.  Magic ?                                Monster. Child.                               Weird !                Monster.

                               Outsider.

                                                               Outsider. Outsider. Outsider.

 

**IV.**

He may be a whisper – a paper-thin ghost, wandering the lands. He may be just a story – of a lost soul, of a white-haired rescuer. He may just be the whistle of the wind, the vibrant greens of a forest;

Perhaps he is the quiet between the waves;

And the longing one feels away from home.

He could be the travels, he could be the scars.

An oak, old and young, a cloud, drifting forever

Warm, because Life is whole, because Life is strong,

Because belonging

Only takes a shiver.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are lovely! 
> 
> (tumblr: da-da-daaa)


End file.
